Where Freedom Walks
by Eldorah
Summary: Neal's last day at the Bureau leaves him struggling to figure out his place in his new anklet-free world. Will he choose to walk by the law or to return to his life of crime and con?  Involves nearly all the characters, at one point or another.
1. Chapter 1

The door to Hughes's office was closed but it only served to lower the volume of the heated argument that was taking place on the other side. Down in the bullpen stood a nervous group of FBI agents, including Diana, Jones, and a soon to be free Neal. They were clustered in a group around Neal's cubicle, making small talk and pretending not to listen to the shouts bouncing back and forth between the two lead agents, but eavesdropping was inevitable. Neal took a sip of his coffee.

"I'm not going to miss this," he said, holding up his cup.

"You know, I had a pretty good cup from Danny's down the street the other day," Jones said, and Diana and Neal nodded apathetically in response.

"—AN ESSENTIAL ASSET FOR THE PAST FOUR YEARS—"

"So, see any good movies lately?" Jones tried to turn everyone's attention away from the shouting.

"Christie doesn't like movies," Diana replied.

"Anklet," Neal said as he looked down at his plastic adornment, "But I can let you know tomorrow." They all laughed uneasily.

"-A LIABILITY FROM DAY ONE—"

"That's nice," Neal said sarcastically. Diana looked at Neal.

"You know, he's trying really hard Neal."

"Oh, I know. I know," Neal said but looked down anyway.

"—FOUR YEARS OF REFORMATION—"

"So, are you, uh, planning to stay at June's?" Jones tried a third time to take the focus off his bosses' argument.

"I don't know. It might be time—"

"A CRIMINAL! YOU CAN'T TRUST—"

"—To move on," Neal said, nodding in the direction of Hughes's closed door.

"Neal, you know that your always wel—" Diana started, but stopped when Hughes's office door opened and abruptly slammed shut again after an enraged Peter Burke stormed into his own office slamming his own door.

Neal looked at his friends. "Should I, uh, go talk to him?"

"No, I'll go." Diana said as she got up and headed to Peter's office. She bounded up the stairs and knocked on the door. Peter didn't even look up.

"Boss?" she questioned softly as she peeked her head in the door. Peter looked up, but didn't say a word. "Everything okay?"

Peter looked up at her with bloodshot eyes, face flushed. "No luck."

"Hugh's won't give Neal his job back after tomorrow?" Diana clarified.

"Not a chance," Peter said as he put his face in his hands, "He's been a liability since day one, and will always be a criminal you can't trust, apparently."

"Boss, I—I'm sorry," Diana said softly. Peter just looked down.

"I just—argh," Peter was clearly frustrated, "I just don't want him to go back to what he was."

"You have to trust him, boss," Diana comforted, "You did what you could. It's up to Neal now." Peter looked out at the window at the bullpen, seeing Neal sitting at his desk, chatting with Jones. He wondered how much of his conversation with Hughes Neal had just heard.

"Send him up here," Peter said without breaking his gaze. Diana obliged, and in a few seconds, Neal sat down at Peter's desk, and Diana closed the door and left. Peter looked across the room at his partner. There Neal sat, with that stupid hat and his damn feet on the desk again. Of course, he was wearing one of those half tie things he always tried to get Peter to wear. But something in his face was different. It wasn't mischievous, the way it was when he pickpocketed Peter's wallet for the third time in an hour. And it wasn't excited, the way it was when he found the answer to a current case. It wasn't impatient, or eager, or anything else Peter would have imagined it to be on Neal's last day in his anklet. It was something different.

Of course, there was the million-dollar smile. The million-dollar smile that said "I'm your ticket to the top of the world" to just about everyone but Peter. Peter knew that smile; it was fake. And while it hurt a bit that Neal would still try to use it to con Peter, he knew it was to cover up something he had been trying to hide all along. That was hope. Hope of a life away from the underground, away from images to keep up and dangerous people you've let down, hope for a life shared with people you love and who love you. Hope of a permanent partnership with Peter, and a place in the FBI family. Hope for an excuse not to turn back into what he was, because while he didn't want to, what choice did he have, really? It killed Peter to not be able to fulfill that hope, to not be able to be that excuse anymore.

"I talked to Hughes again, Neal," Peter started.

"Talked?"

"Well, things got a little… charged."

"Well, I'm honored, Peter. I didn't know you cared that much." _There goes that smile. _

"Don't get too excited, Neal, Hughes won't let me keep you as a consultant."

"Let me guess… I've been a liability since day one, and I'll always be a criminal you can't trust?"

Peter looked up, half surprised. _So he had heard. _

"Neal, you know I don't think that. You know Diana and Jones don't think that—"

"No, I get it, Peter," Neal looked Peter in the eye, "Really, I do. You can't change your past, and your past shapes your future, right?"

Peter met his partner's gaze.

"You can't change your past, Neal. But you can make your future."

Neal squinted and half laughed quietly.

"I guess I'll go clean up my desk, then, if you don't need me anymore right now?"

Peter nodded in response, and Neal left. Four years ago, he didn't imagine that this moment could hurt so much. But here was, proven wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Neal headed back to his desk with a box that had previously held the printer paper. Slowly, he picked up his few belongings from his desk and put them into the box.

_The rubber band ball. Good times. _"Hey, catch, Jones!"

_Peter's pen. Forgot I stole that back. _Box.

_Gift card to the airport coffee shop. Too stunned about Diana that first day to give it to her. _"Hey, Diana, take this."

_A back-up pick pocket kit. Could be useful. _Box.

_An assortment of pencils and a sketchpad. _Box.

_A paper flower folded during an all-nighter at the office. _Neal wrote "ForElle" and left it on top of his desk.

An assortment of other items discovered within the depths of his desk were either given off to surrounding agents or put into his box. After every drawer had been emptied, Neal put what he planned to leave for Peter in the top drawer, and left Elle's flower on top.

He glanced at his watch, noting it was almost five o'clock. That was the time the anklet could come off for good. Neal remembered the thrill and adrenaline the first time his anklet was cut to get back that Bible, and how tempted he had been to just run instead of finish the job. He didn't though. The second time it came off he was playing Pai Gow with Lao as Nick Halden. The rest of the times kind of blended together, each fun and exciting but increasingly less tempting as Peter trusted Neal with this privilege more and more. Eventually, the thoughts of risking his freedom and partnership with Peter in exchange for a return to his former life just faded away, and he relished the times the anklet was off because he felt more like a man instead of a caged animal. It meant Peter trusted him. But today, he wasn't sure how he felt. No more anklet meant no more responsibility, and with only himself to answer to, Neal was worried temptation would set in again. Even more so, he worried that Peter, no longer bound to Neal at the free end of his plastic jewelry, would no longer feel the need to keep up this friendship he cherished. The anklet had become a sort of physical representation of the intangible bond between the two, and by severing the physical piece, Neal was afraid they were going to sever the more important intangible piece as well.

"Well, Neal," his thoughts were interrupted by Peter's voice. Looking up, he saw his partner approaching, followed closely by Hughes.

"It looks like you've done your time," Peter finished. Jones and Diana joined the small group forming around Neal's desk.

"Caffrey, you did good work for us these past few years, and I congratulate you on your spectacular efforts," Hughes said formally, acutely aware that Neal had probably heard his argument with Peter earlier.

"Thanks," Neal replied as he shook Hughes's hand, "And thank you for this opportunity." Hughes nodded and stepped back, letting Peter move forward.

Peter and Neal stood facing each other, and engaged in an unspoken conversation. The silence was awkward for the group surrounding them, but the partners knew what was being said.

_This is a new start for you. Don't screw it up._

_I know, Peter, I know._

_I don't want to have to chase you again._

_Peter, I know. _

_And stay in touch. Don't run away._

_I know. _

The two broke eye contact for a moment, and then looked back at each other.

_Before I do this, one more thing._

_Yeah?_

_I'm proud of you, kid._

"I'm proud of you, kid," Peter's voice echoed the feelings he expressed in his eyes.

Neal held Peter's gaze.

_Thank you. For everything, really, thank you. _

And then, Peter leaned forward and cut Neal's anklet. Just like that. There was no beeping sound, no glaring red light, no immediate call to Peter's phone. Just as calmly as he went in cuffs to jail, Neal became a free man. The next few minutes were spent saying goodbyes, and then the ex-con-ex-consultant took his box and left the Bureau.

Peter stayed at Neal's desk for a while, mulling over his past four years and trying to decide to what degree he should worry about Neal's future. Looking down, he noticed a paper flower. Turning it over, he saw that Neal had left it for Elle. Slightly hurt that his partner didn't leave him anything, he began to open the desk drawers, starting with the bottom. Coming up empty after the bottom two, Peter tried not to get his hopes up as he opened the last, but a smile spread across his face when he saw what was inside. Staring back at him was a green lollypop, a plastic sheriff's badge, and a yellow post it note that simply said "Thank you." Peter put the note and the lollypop in his pocket, and examined the sheriff's badge. He remembered the goofy expression and lopsided grin on Neal's face when he pulled the badge out of Peter's cereal box a few years ago. The kid would never grow up. He closed his hand around the badge, and taking Elle's flower, he headed home. He briefly cherished the idea of sleeping fifteen minutes later tomorrow morning because he'd no longer have to pick Neal up, but that happy thought quickly turned to longing. Looking out his windshield of his car, he mentally resolved not to think about it anymore tonight, but by the first red light, he had already given up.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **So happy to see all of your responses! Multi-chapter stories aren't usually my thing, so I am so encouraged by your reviews! Enjoy! =)

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><p>Back at his apartment, Neal found Mozzie already pouring two glasses of wine. Cheap dollar store streamers were strung around his kitchen and island themed music was playing in the background.<p>

"Welcome to the celebration my friend," Mozzie greeted as he raised his glass, "'Freedom: to walk free and own no superior.' How does it feel?"

"Whitman… Nice," Neal said, "And, there's a lot less chaffing." Neal walked to his couch and threw his box down on the floor. Ignoring the glass of wine Mozzie was offering him, he sunk down into the leather sofa and laid his head back.

"What, no fine beverage to celebrate this glorious day in our history?" Mozzie probed, "You _are _done with your tether, right?"

Neal pulled up his Sy Devore pants leg to reveal an anklet free ankle.

"So, why haven't you taken the entire collection of fine gemstones from Tiffany's yet?" Mozzie asked in obvious confusion. Neal just looked at him, blue eyes piercing in a 'you don't get it' expression.

"Oh. Oh, no, no, no," Mozzie put his hands on his head in clear distress, "No, no, no, man. No. You _miss _the tether!"

"Well, I don't know about _miss. _It rubbed and it was hard to hide, I would settle for a more subt—" Neal started to explain

"You've become a _Fed!_" Mozzie hissed in response, sitting down at the table with his face in his hands, "Fed. Man, Neal, I don't believe it."

"Moz, really?" Neal asked, frustrated at his friend's reaction.

"Yes! Yes, really! Neal," Mozzie looked at the younger man, "Do you even hear yourself? We dreamed about this day! And you, man… They broke you."

"Moz!" Neal chastised, but the bald man just stood up.

"Maybe you need a night to shake it off. Maybe you just need to think about it, some time to plan your next con," Mozzie started to leave, "But I can't be here if you're entertaining thoughts of becoming an ankletless Fed."

"Hughes wouldn't give me the position, Moz," Neal said sorely. Mozzie looked at Neal and his demeanor softened. He had picked up in the hurt and disappointment in his friend's voice, and even if he didn't agree, he hated to see Neal this way.

Sitting back down, he asked softly, "Oh, so, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know, Moz. I don't know." A tense moment of silence ensued, and in a moment of uncontrolled emotion, Neal ripped a streamer off the wall that had been tickling his face. Mozzie startled at his friend's abrupt reaction, but said nothing.

"It's just," Neal strained to explain as the muscles in his neck twitched from his tense posture, "I don't… I don't belong here. I don't want to run anymore. I don't want to…" Mozzie waited for more but Neal's voice trailed off. The two friends sat in silence for the next hour or so, each totally lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Mozzie stood up, walked over to Neal, and gently squeezed his shoulder in an effort to give his friend some sort of comfort. He started to say something, but thought better of it and instead left quietly.

A few days passed before Mozzie heard from his friend again, and even so, he had to be the one to initiate. He also didn't appreciate the texts he received each day from the Suit asking if he knew how Neal was. Unwilling to have the conversation through text message, Moz told Peter to 'meet in the park covered with paper when the day is still grey from the early vapor'.

Peter, more than annoyed that Mozzie's only response was both a riddle _and _a poem, found himself sitting on the park bench pretending to read the sports section of the newspaper in the morning mist the next day before work.

"And so the light comes to meet the dark on behalf of the grey," Mozzie greeted Peter as he sat back to back with the agent on the other side of the bench.

"What does that even mean?" Peter spat back.

"I see you solved my riddle."

"I don't do riddles. Or poems."

"I assume you haven't come to gripe. What do you want?"

"How is he?"

"_Who_ is _he_?" Mozzie made sure to draw out the words, emphasizing with his hands that he would not give any information unless Peter was specific.

Peter, his patience quickly dwindling, turned and faced Mozzie.

"_Neal_. How's _Neal_?"

"He's been happier."

"Is he planning something?"

"I don't know."

"Listen, I just want to make sure he doesn't mess up his life again," Peter said, "Once we are sure of that, you never have to talk to me again. Just tell me what he's up to."

"He's like Edgar Allen Poe in his dark place. Well, maybe not that bad. Poe was normally in a dark place, so I guess Neal's just in a Poe place…" Mozzie diverged.

"LISTEN. Tell me in plain English if Neal's alright," Peter said curtly, "I already don't have time to get my morning coffee because of you, and some of us have a job to get to."

"I don't know. I haven't really talked to him," Mozzie responded, annoyed, but finally sharing something of value with Peter, "He's depressed and he doesn't know what he is going to do. He needs some time."

"Fine. Don't throw that phone out when you leave, I want to make sure I can get in touch with you if I can't reach Neal for the next few days," Peter said, standing up, "I can get you a new one when we are through. Keep tabs on him."

"Hah!" Mozzie retorted, "You couldn't pay me to take your Fed phone, Suit. I'll get my own when this blows over."

With that, the two men departed, Peter going to work, and Mozzie walking through the park. Deep in thought about where to get breakfast this morning, he jumped a little when he felt his phone vibrate. He was even more surprised when he saw it was Neal.

"Hey pal," Moz answered.

"I have an idea," Neal said, his usual spark back in his voice.

"An idea?"

"Yeah, invite Peter and Elle to a private show at the Museum of Modern Art this Saturday."

"There's a private show at the Museum of Modern Art this Saturday?"

"Just do it, Moz. I'll see you soon."

"But Neal… Neal!" Mozzie tried to get his friend's attention again but he had already hung up. He sat down on the bench and called Peter. He was really going to need a new phone after this.

"This is Burke."

"Neal requests yours and Lady Suit's presence at a private art exhibit on Saturday afternoon at the Museum of Modern Art," Mozzie said.

"Did he say why?" Peter asked curiously.

"Nope," Mozzie answered. With that, he hung up the phone and threw it in a nearby trashcan. He continued on his way to breakfast as if nothing had happened, wondering what in the world a free Neal had devised that he wanted the Suit and his wife to be a part of.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Again, thank you so much for all of your encouraging words and reviews! I appreciate all of your time spent reading and responding to this story! I decided not to drag it out any longer and added the last three chapters. I do hope you enjoy it, and don't be afraid to let me know what you think! Happy reading! =)

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><p>Back in his apartment, Neal had just hung up the phone, and his mind was reeling with excitement for his new idea. It wasn't his first choice when he envisioned how things would work out when his anklet was snipped for the final time, but at least it got him what he wanted. If he played it right, maybe he could get his friends what they wanted too. Looking at the calendar, he noted it was Tuesday. He had four days until he had to meet Peter at the museum. That didn't give him much time to accomplish what he needed to, so he set off hurriedly out his door.<p>

_Wednesday – 12:20 pm_

It was an excruciatingly slow day at the Bureau, one of those days that made Diana miss Neal's ever-so-annoying antics. She couldn't believe she actually _missed _listening to him hum Frank Sinatra songs over at his desk, or watching the rubber band ball make its repetitive unhurried ascent and descent a few cubicles over. Although she knew it was just a matter of circumstance, she couldn't help but take notice that even the cases had become more mundane since Neal's last day. She stared at a huge pile of mortgage and insurance fraud, longing for an intriguing gem theft or art heist to sink her mind into. But then again, maybe not, because that would remind Peter of Neal, and he seemed to just be starting to come around a little. Standing up to go get a cup of coffee, Diana noticed a group of three young men walking in the door, each rolling a sheet-covered cart behind them. They were dressed in white dress shirts, with black pants and black bowties.

"Where can we put this for you?" one man called to Diana.

"What do you have? We aren't expecting any deliveries," she responded, hesitantly walking over to the men.

"Oh, uh, surprise? Don't worry, it's paid for," the man said as he pulled off the sheet, unveiling a spread of gourmet food.

"Uh, I guess, in the conference room—Peter! Peter can tell you," she gestured him to come down to the bullpen as he peeked his head out his office. Peter shot her a look of confusion, but Diana could only shrug her shoulders as they both watched the bow-tied men pile trays and trays of food onto the conference room table. Soon, Hughes noticed the action and came out of his office as well.

"What's going on here, Burke?" Hughes asked.

Peter picked up a business card off of a plate, bewildered. "Abby Klein? This place is one of the most expensive gourmet restaurants in the city. Elle has been dying to just get drinks here."

After placing the last tray on the table, a worker handed Peter an envelope. "Enjoy!" he said as he and his two helpers left the office. Diana walked over and admired the huge spread. The food's presentation alone was a work of art, and she estimated that this lunchtime treat must have cost someone a good chunk of change.

"Diana, who do we know in the Netherlands?" Peter looked at the contents of the envelope in confusion. It was a postcard from Amsterdam, with a message:

"NOYJE FELIS NISTEF ATETSS (SUJT RYT TI EPRTE)"

Peter was staring at the coded message, his brain churning to try to unscramble the jumble of letters, when suddenly, Jones burst through the conference room door.

"Peter! The Van Gogh stolen while on loan at the MET six years ago was sold by a private collector back to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam yesterday!" Noticing the spread, he added, "Nice, lunch on Peter!"

Diana grabbed the postcard from Peter's hand. There had to be a connection.

_NOYJE FELIS NISTEF ATETSS (SUJT RYT TI EPRTE)... _Neal…

"Enjoy life's finest tastes (just try it, Peter)," Diana decoded after a minute or two. Peter just shook his head and took a step back towards the window, putting his hand on his hips.

"Neal sold the Van Gogh back to the museum that owned it?" Jones clarified.

Diana looked at her boss, who was still visibly annoyed, and then to Jones. "Don't ask questions. Here, try a… tomato hand pie," she read off an accompanying menu card.

"A what?" Peter turned and questioned.

"Just try it, Peter," she teased as she shoved the postcard back to him. He did, and even he had to admit, it was the best lunch he ever had.

_Thursday- 6:35 pm_

Peter was still trying to contact Neal after yesterday's scheme he pulled at lunch. He was curious to know if it was in fact his former partner who sold the museum back their own painting, how he had acquired it if he did, and what in the world this all had to do with a private exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. Knowing full well Neal wouldn't tell him anything if he did get in touch with him, Peter longed hear him try to skirt around the answer without lying like he always did, just for the sheer satisfaction of being right. And there was also that part about Neal not being at work anymore. Or in his car, or in his house, or petting his dog. Neal used to be everywhere, and suddenly, he was nowhere. Peter still missed him, and was looking forward to Saturday more than he'd like to admit. Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, he pulled in his driveway, and was barely able to get out of his car before he was greeted by a tremendously happy Elle.

"Honey!" she screamed, "Who do you know in Italy?"

_Not this again, _Peter thought. "Why, Hon?"

"Because whoever it was just bought Burke Premiere Events a second office in Soho!" she was practically crying she was so happy. Peter took the postcard out of her hand. On it was a picture of a gorgeous vineyard, and sprawling across the bottom was the name _Tuscany _in a fanciful script. There was another coded message on the back next to a key that was taped securely to the card.

LEEL UYO VESREED HTSI LACL 212-967-6582

"I called, Hon, and that's what they told me! I don't know what the rest says," Elle explained.

"Elle, you deserve this, call 212-967-6582," Peter quickly solved the code. _Now, how did he afford this?_

"Do you know who it's from?" Elle asked.

"I know who it's from. Now, we just have to figure out how he did it," Peter said, deep in thought.

"Who, Hon?" Elle asked, her face unable to hide the disappointment when Peter's phone rang.

"This is Burke," he answered.

"Mr. Burke, we just wanted to thank you so much for your donation of the Franklin bottle to our winery's fine collection," an Italian accent spoke on the other end.

"My what?" Peter asked, bewildered.

"Your donation. It was so kind, and we thank you very much. We hope we have compensated you accordingly. Chao!" the voice responded, and then hung up.

Peter stared at his phone. The FBI had commandeered the Franklin bottle after taking Keller in. There's no way he could have…

_The forgery…_

"Neal…" Peter growled.

"Neal bought this?" Elle squealed, "Oh, Honey, tell him he can use our service anytime he has a party!" Peter wanted to be angry with Neal, but when he looked at how happy Elle was, he couldn't help but smile with her.

_Thursday, 10:45 pm_

After a wonderful dinner and what seemed to be an endless conversation of how to decorate the new Soho office, the tired senior agent settled down on the couch to watch the ball game. Only a few innings later, however, he lost the battle and drifted to sleep. About two hours passed before a knock on the door nearly scared a snoring Peter into falling off the couch and sent Satchmo into a barking hysteric.

"Who the hell?" Peter mumbled. Opening the door, Peter found no one there. There was, however, an envelope lying on the stoop. Picking it up and opening it quickly, Peter found another postcard accompanied by box seat tickets to each round of the Yankee playoffs, starting next week. This time, the postcard was from Paris, and the message read: LLSTI NTOD TNDADREUNS HTSI OTINNACAFI TBU NYJEO

_Still don't understand this fascination, but enjoy._

What the hell did he sell in Paris? Peter spent the next half hour trying to figure it out, but eventually gave up and went upstairs to bed. As he was crawling under the covers, Elle was woken up by a text on her phone.

"Honey, does 'Raphael to Louvre' mean anything to you?" Elle asked sleepily.

Peter sighed. "Yes. Just don't ever say anything about that text to Sara."

"Okay…" Elle mumbled sleepily as she turned over and closed her eyes again.

As Peter closed his own eyes, he saw himself with his arm around Elle in a private box at the game next week, watching the Yankees get one step closer to victory. He couldn't condone what Neal did, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't excited. What was that Elle always said Neal was doing? Oh yeah, the wrong things for the right reasons…

_Friday, 11:25 am_

The next morning, Mozzie and June sat on the balcony of Neal's apartment, playing their weekly game of Parcheesi when they were interrupted by the arrival of a pair of pigeons carrying two envelopes. One was marked 'June' and the other was marked 'Moz'. Confused but interested, they both tore open their envelopes.

"Holy Toledo's!" Mozzie exclaimed when he saw his envelope's contents. Inside was a postcard with a coded message Mozzie immediately understood to mean "Don't let this one disappear." Next to the message was a key to a vintage 1975 Pinto. The postcard was from Mexico City. Mozzie thought for a moment before he comprehended the situation as well as what Neal had sold. In obvious distress, he exclaimed, "Neal, not the Tamayo!"

Meanwhile, in her envelope, June found two round trip plane tickets to Orlando and two seven-day passes to Disneyworld for herself and her grand-daughter. The message read: RFO NRSEPSIC HANATMSA DNA RHE ATIUBEFLU NEQUE

Quickly deciphering her own code, she read out loud, "For Princess Samantha and her beautiful queen…"

"Where's it from?" Mozzie questioned, and June slid the card to him. Flipping it over, he saw the postcard was from Greece. Again, thinking for a moment, Mozzie pondered what Greek masterpiece Neal could have had possession of and sold off. Suddenly, he remembered, and looked up in time to see the look of revelation cross June's face as well. "The Antioch manuscripts!" they exclaimed in unison.

Mozzie reached out to stroke one of the carrier pigeons, but it flew off when his hands got too close. "I appreciate the irony, my friend," he whispered, remembering how Neal had used the pigeons to assist in the stealing of the very thing he had just sold. Then, the pair returned to their Parcheesi game, wondering when Neal would be back and what else he might have up his sleeve.

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><p>It was late on Friday night when Neal finally returned from his around-the-world voyage, and he was not surprised to find Mozzie, once again, raiding his wine collection.<p>

"Do you ever go home?" Neal asked his friend, only half-jokingly.

"Well, before, no, but now, thanks to a newly acquired 1975 Pinto, I can come and go as I please," Mozzie replied, "Which, by the way, I prefer to travel in black. It blends in better. But red'll do."

"You're _welcome, _Moz."

"Oh yeah. Well, thanks."

"See, was that so hard?"

"Don't change the topic at hand! What's your angle for tomorrow?"

"Moz, that was never the topic at hand."

"Don't try to play me, conman. What are you scheming?"

"Nothing," Neal said, and then, very quietly, "That you'll approve of, anyway."

"What was that? Speak up, I couldn't hear over the con in your voice," Mozzie looked at Neal, earnestly frustrated that Neal was trying to keep something from him.

Neal met his friend's gaze. "Do you really want to know?" Mozzie didn't answer, instead holding his hands out to emphasize the expectant expression his face.

Taking his friend's posture as a yes, Neal began, "Fine. This is what I was thinking…"


	5. Chapter 5

"Neal, are you _sure _this is what you want to do?" Mozzie asked concernedly. The two friends were standing in the Museum of Modern Art on Saturday afternoon, just like they had planned.

"Yeah, Moz, I'm sure," Neal replied, and looking around for Peter, he added, "You're sure you called him and told him to be here?"

"What? Yeah, man, but listen, if something goes wrong, there's no back up plan. You know the back up plan if this doesn't work…" Mozzie warned.

"Moz, relax," Neal flashed his million dollar smile, "Nothing will go wrong." It was evident Mozzie didn't buy it, and the apprehension was written all over his face.

"Look, there's Elle and Peter, come on, get ready," Neal instructed.

"Neal, as your friend and confidant, I really have to advise against this," Mozzie tried one last time, but it was too late. Neal had already begun the plan.

The two friends were standing in front of a foam sculpture of obnoxious proportions. Its face value had to be zilch, but it was displayed at the museum because it was a creation of the curator himself, and who wouldn't want to display their own handiwork? If it wasn't for the sheer stupidity of the whole idea, in Moz's mind, the whole situation would have been hilarious. Bits and pieces of the thing broke off as Neal struggled to get a firm hold of it, and dragging it over the red velvet dividers proved more difficult than imagined. Once Neal had finally accomplished this bit, the rest was easy. He ran off with it firmly in his grasp in the direction of a side exit, sending white pieces fluttering in every direction when he cut a corner too closely, and Mozzie knew he had made it out when the alarm sounded. Running into the next room where Peter had just been, Mozzie began his tirade.

"Help! Uh, help!" he yelled, "Someone has _stolen _that fine piece of artistry!" The museum curator rushed over, and Mozzie tried to explain quickly as his eyes darted around for the Suit. Finally, the curator got distracted by someone on his radio, and Mozzie took the chance to run into the next room. Luckily, Peter and Elle were in the middle of the frantic mess, and Peter was of course trying to figure out what had happened.

"Help! Help! Isn't anyone here an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation?" Mozzie cried out, sounding a little too rehearsed. Immediately, he saw Peter come storming towards him. Mozzie shrank back a little bit, unprepared for Peter's intimidating approach.

"Where's Neal?" Peter demanded.

"Ne-Neal? I don't know a Neal," Mozzie said, "But someone stole that foam out of the other room! He went out that exit!" Peter gave Mozzie a look that could kill and then raced off in the direction Neal had left in. Elle was soon by Moz's side.

"What's going on, Moz?" Elle asked concernedly.

"Nothing outside the plan, hopefully," Mozzie tried to console her. She didn't look relieved, and if Mozzie was honest, he shared the same opinion.

* * *

><p>Peter squinted as he met the bright sunlight on the busy New York street. Looking in every direction, he desperately tried to find his ex-partner in the throngs of bustling people. Finally, after what felt like an hour, his eyes caught the top of a bright white piece of foam floating over everyone's heads, and Peter pushed his way in that direction. When only a few people separated him and the foam, Peter was able to make out the back of Neal's head.<p>

_Dammit, Neal, _he thought, _Why the hell would you want that thing?_

But then, Peter had an idea. A crazy one, but just maybe… The kid was smart. He wasn't going to steal foam in the first place, but if he were to try, he wouldn't do it in broad daylight. Maybe that's why he had been asked here, so he'd be in the right place at the right time and catch Neal in the act of stealing the foam so that he could arrest him and then reinstate—

"STOP RIGHT THERE!" Peter halted in his tracks, and his heart ascended to his mouth when he saw a small army of police officers surrounding Neal. They ripped the foam thing out of his hands and roughly cuffed him behind his back. The look on Neal's face cut Peter in half when he turned and saw him, and Peter ran to meet his friend.

"Wait, wait," Peter tried, flashing his badge, "I know this kid, he's our pain in the ass, the FBI has dealt with him for almost the past decade, so I can take it from here."

"No way, pal. We know him too," the officer in charge said as he gave Neal a rough push, "Kid's been conning cops across the city, making fools of us. Stealing cop cars, conning us into breaking into vehicles," the cop turned and looked at Neal, "I'm Jones, by the way, 6th Precinct?" Neal just smiled and nodded. He rolled his head toward Peter, who looked like he was about to take all of them down, including Neal.

"With all due respect, Officer Jones, 6th Precinct, I am the _only_ agent in the city who has ever caught Caffrey, so I think that makes him _my_ problem."

"With all due respect—"

"Agent Burke."

"With all due respect, Agent Burke, FBI, you are now one of _two_ people in the city who has caught Caffrey, so _now_, I think he's _my_ problem. Put him in the car, Luiz."

Neal's eyes pleaded for Peter to do more, and as the cops pulled Neal away and shoved him in the back of a car, Peter wanted more than anything to arrest them all.

"What happened?" Elle suddenly appeared beside Peter.

"YEAH! WHAT HAPPENED?" Mozzie said accusingly.

"I should be asking you the same thing," Peter turned to the shorter man, "You knew he was going to do this. You knew, and you didn't tell me?"

"You broke him, man! He wouldn't have done this if you hadn't turned him into a Fed!"

Unwilling to watch a brawl ensure between her husband and the strange little man she had grown fond of, Elle stepped in.

"Moz, you know that Peter was the best thing that ever happened to Neal, and you wouldn't have helped him do this if you believed otherwise."

"Maybe," Mozzie said, turning back to Peter, "But you'd better get him _BACK." _


	6. Chapter 6

_Crap, _Neal thought as he sat in his dark cell on his hard bunk bed. He knew that wasn't the most eloquent or sophisticated of word choices, but honestly, nothing else described this situation better. _Crap. _

_How had he been so dumb? _Neal wasn't the type to rush into anything. He took calculated risks _only. _And foam? Really, back in prison for who knows how long for _foam? _If it was a Monet, or a Picasso, or even some antiquity like Alex seems to enjoy, he could justify this situation. But had he really just been thrown back in this hellhole for a piece of _foam?_

Neal mulled the situation in his head over and over. How did it go wrong? He made the grab, he heard Mozzie screaming, he had given Peter time to catch him. He had avoided all the cameras, and there wasn't a police office for nearly four blocks away. He hadn't seen them coming, otherwise, he could have dropped the foam and ran. He just walked right into them. And what's worse, Peter was so close. If he could have just avoided the officers for another second, the whole plan would have been golden.

"Neal," Dominick, a guard he had grown to know over his years spent in prison, called to him from outside his cell, "Someone's here to see you." Neal obediently stood up, hoping desperately it was Mozzie. If anyone could get him out of here, it was his resourceful friend, and he wasn't sure he could take the disappointment he knew Peter was harboring at the moment anyway. Metal cuffs were gently placed on his hands, a welcome deviant from the way he had been treated in the past few hours, and Dominick led him to the visiting cells. Neal kept his head down as he approached it, only risking a glance up right before he walked through the door. It was Peter. _Crap. Again._

Peter didn't look at him. He didn't turn toward him. In fact, Neal wasn't even sure if Peter knew his former partner had entered the room. The senior agent only stared out the tiny excuse for a window, with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched tight. Neal sat at the table, head down, dark hair messy in his face, trying to evaporate into the air to avoid the tirade he knew Peter was sooner or later going to start. But the conman had learned a long time ago it was hard to hide in neon orange.

"Neal," Peter turned, trying so hard to keep his composure, "What…the hell…was that?" Neal wasn't sure if it was the quiver of a furiously angry voice trying to keep control or the possibility that Peter might not even _want _to take him back as a partner anymore that scared him, but fear was rising in his chest, and he wasn't very experienced in this emotion. He didn't know how to hide it in this moment, and so, rather than risking the wrong words, or saying too much, Neal stayed quiet.

"Four years. Four years of you hell bent on taking the crooked path and me trying to pull you back," Peter began to pace, "Four years. And here we are, right where we started. Didn't it make _any_ difference at all?" Neal still looked down, unable to meet his friend's glare.

"Look at me, Neal," Peter tried. When the conman didn't respond, Peter walked over to the table, placing his hands in front of Neal and drawing his face in close.

"_Look _at me." The seriousness in Peter's voice spoke more clearly to Neal than his words, and finally, he allowed his shamed blue gaze to peek out from under its dark curtain to meet the face of the man he desperately wanted to make proud.

"Why?" Peter asked. Again, Neal stayed quiet, and when it became clear Peter was expecting an answer, he looked away.

"I'm just trying to understand, Neal," Peter coaxed, a little less 'intimidating interrogator' and a little more 'concerned friend'. But only a little. Neal opened his mouth to explain, but then shut it again. He wouldn't understand.

"I can't protect you if I don't know what was going through your head," Peter tried again. Neal looked up voluntarily for the first time, and a glimmer of hope danced across his face. Peter understood this gesture.

"I didn't arrest you," he said, "You're not my prerogative anymore. I can pull some strings, but it's not like before. I can't protect you from this." The answer deeply disappointed Neal at his very core, although it was expected. But Peter had said _can't_, which is very different than _won't_. He looked up at his old partner again, his blue eyes clearer than the sky, his face more honest and pleading and anxious than Peter had ever seen it before.

"You said can't_,_" Neal said, shameful and quiet.

"What?" Peter returned, not understanding Neal's response.

"You—," Neal paused for a second to regain his composure, "You said _can't._ Does that mean you still _would, _if you _could?_" With this question, Peter was sure that his hunch about Neal's motive had been right. He returned Neal's gaze with a steady one of his own.

"You know if I could, I would do anything to protect you."

* * *

><p>That statement from his partner did more to rebuild Neal Caffrey back into the confident man he was more than anything Peter had said or did in the past four years combined. Determination set in, and although it was a few days before he heard from Mozzie, Neal spent his hours in solitude devising an escape plan. Once he had a thorough plan, he coded it on sheets of toilet paper and hid it in a crack behind the sink, keeping it safe until his friend arrived. He would rather be locked up for life for trying to get back to Peter than spend the next four years regretting that he never tried. Finally, Mozzie came, and Neal stealthily passed the toilet paper to him, indicating with his eyes that he needed Mozzie's help. When the friends split again, Neal was left only with time to wait anxiously and the thoughts that flooded his head. He had already known the true depth of what his friendship with Peter had meant to himself, but before that moment in the visiting cell, Neal was never aware of the intensity of its reciprocation. Suddenly, box seat tickets to some ball games and an office in the best part of town didn't seem enough to repay the family that had given so much of their love and life back to Neal, and there was nothing that was going to stop him from showing them that. Two weeks later, when the day finally came that Mozzie was to help him escape, Neal slipped on his aura of confidence and charisma, ready for the last time to do the wrong thing for the right reason.<p>

He went very calmly to recess, not showing even a hint to indicate his plans. He waited and waited, and when he saw the clock on the side of the building indicated there was only five minutes of free time left, he picked a fight with someone he was relatively sure he could beat if Mozzie didn't come through. Walking up and shoving the guy square in his chest, Neal yelled and cussed and made the biggest scene he could muster. He didn't hit the guy but received a few blows, deserved for a fight picked for no reason, and right on schedule, Mozzie stormed in the yard, yelling in a deep and commanding voice at Neal to stop. He was dressed impeccably in the same suit Neal had escaped in four years ago, and if Neal didn't know any better, he would have mistaken Mozzie for a prison guard any day.

"Hey, you, tough guy!" Mozzie yelled, shoving Neal against a wall and pinning his forearm against Neal's neck, "You're coming with me." Neal winced when his head smacked against the brick, but was grateful for the show his friend was putting on. Moz ripped Neal's hands behind his back and cuffed him, and with one hand on the cuffs and another gripped tight in Neal's dark hair, Mozzie shoved him though the side entrance to the yards. The other guards on duty nodded in approval and began the task of rounding the other inmates up to return to their cells.

The escape wasn't hard from there. Mozzie continued his prison guard act, leading Neal further into the empty cell barracks, until they came to a utility closet in a secluded hallway. Quickly picking the lock, Moz put a knife in Neal's pocket and shoved him inside. Closing the door behind him, he left the prison as easily as he had come.

Meanwhile, Neal used the knife to cut a hole in the dry-walled ceiling, and hoisting himself up onto the shelving units, climbed through. He followed the ventilation chambers until they emptied into the dirty crawl space where dust and foul smell met freedom. Quickly dislodging the metal vent from its window with the help of brute force and the knife, Neal squeezed through the small space onto the road outside the prison where Mozzie was waiting with the Pinto. The two drove off in a roaring screech of rubber tires and victory. And Neal didn't have to tell Moz where to go.

* * *

><p>The doorbell rang in the Burke house, but this time, Satchmo didn't begin his barking parade. Instead, he stayed stoically seated at the feet of his master, who was sitting on the couch, staring at but not watching the TV. Peter <em>still <em>hadn't gotten over the continual paradox of disappointment and friendship that was his relationship with Neal Caffrey, and he felt that he had somehow failed the kid by not finding a way to bail him out of jail. He knew Neal was miserable, and, at the heart of it, at least this time, he didn't really belong there. He was only doing what he knew was right in the best way he knew how. Unfortunately, the government didn't share Neal's mindset.

Another two rings from the bell finally brought Elle down the stairs, her hair still wet from a recent shower. Briefly, she stole a look at her husband, and compassion flooded her eyes. She hated seeing him like this.

When Elizabeth opened the door, she had not been expecting Neal Caffrey to be standing in front of her. She let out a small gasp, and then, unsure of whether Peter would be enraged or relieved to see his partner, she stepped outside and shut the door behind her. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she brought him close to her and hugged him. Tears filled her eyes that she quickly brushed away, but when she pulled away and looked at the man standing before her again, she realized he was in the same situation.

"Elizabeth," Neal said softly, "I'm so sorry."

"Just—just stop," Elle sniffed, "Don't say anything." Neal's heart ached at this response but he knew she didn't want to have to testify against him in court, since, at this point, she was aiding a fugitive.

"Can I see Peter?" Neal asked, his eyes pleading, "I just, I need him to know that it wasn't all for nothing."

"You're going to go back in for life for this, Neal, if he can't help you."

"I know, it doesn't matter, I just need to see him."

Elle opened the door and let Neal walk in after her. Mirroring their encounter in the visiting cell, Peter did not look up, and the conman was unsure if his partner was aware of his presence. This time, Neal was unafraid to speak first.

"Peter," he said softly, "I'm sorry." At this, Peter looked up at Neal. His brown gaze showed no emotion, just weariness and confliction. Neal took a few steps toward him, and knelt down beside Satchmo, who licked Neal's hands seemingly to encourage him to keep talking.

"You asked if it had made any difference," Neal continued, "All of this. The chasing, the trusting, the partnership, it _all_ made a difference." Peter looked away and put his hand to his face, indicating he was trying to process what Neal was saying. The younger man looked around the room for a moment, trying to give his friend a minute to respond, but the silence was deafening.

"I know I don't do the right things, Peter, but, I want to. I try to," the unresponsiveness of his friend was slowly draining Neal's confidence, and it was only under the extreme probing of a licking Satchmo that he continued to speak. A shakiness crept into Neal's voice that surprised both Peter and Neal on equal levels.

"I know I screwed it up big time here. And I know you can't protect me. That's not why I came." Still getting no response from Peter, Neal slowly got up and backed toward the door. Elle, who had been leaning against the kitchen doorframe, walked over to her husband and put her hand on his leg. Satchmo, intently watching Neal's slow departure, let out a few short distressed whines.

"I just—" Neal hesitated as he bit back his pride as well as a threatening tear, "I just wanted to tell you thank you. That you made more of a difference then I've let you know, and that I wish I could be half as good of a man as you are."

These words jarred Peter's heart, and his jaw muscle tensed as he closed his eyes. This wasn't how all this was supposed to end. Without saying another word, Neal slowly left the Burke's home. Unsure of where to go until the Marshalls found him again, he walked aimlessly across Peter's yard and down the street. He had made it a few blocks before the black Taurus pulled up along side him.

"Get in the car, Neal," Peter said gently through a rolled down window. Surprised but thoroughly ecstatic that Peter had come to find him, the conman crawled in the passenger seat. Peter drove off slowly, in no particular direction. Neal looked down at his hands, hoping his friend was finally ready to speak. Eventually, he did.

"You're worth more than what you sell yourself for," Peter began, "You're more than your next big con, or your next big escape. You're more than a smooth talker, more than a brilliant smile, more than a felon with a tracker chained to your ankle. You are going to accomplish something huge one day, Neal, you are already changing people's lives with what you do. Once you realize your own worth, you are going to be unstoppable. And don't ever say that you aren't a good man, because your heart has never been in the wrong place for as long as I have known you."

Neal was unprepared for that type of emotional speech, and he looked at Peter with a small smile.

"You mean that?" he asked.

"Don't make me say it again," Peter responded. They drove in silence for the next moment or two before Peter broke it again.

"You're under arrest, you know," he said, without looking at Neal.

"I know," Neal responded, and then a sly smile crept onto his face. "What for?"

Peter looked at him in disbelief. "Eyes on the road," Neal chastised.

"You're under arrest for escaping Super Max, for the _second _time, and fleeing to the wife of a Federal Agent."

Neal's smile grew wider, "Hey, Peter, what's it worth if I told you who stole that foam from the museum the other week?"

Peter stopped the car and stared blankly at his partner. "I know who stole the foam from the museum the other week, Neal."

"Is it worth a meeting?"

"It's not worth anything. I _saw_ you steal it!"

"If I tell you who did it, right now, will you meet me in prison in one week?"

"Neal, I _know_ who stole it!"

"It was Neal Caffrey. Look him up, he's pretty talented,"

"You are unbelievable."

"One week."

"Neal, shut up."

The two drove with childlike smiles back to the prison, where Peter dropped off his convict only to pick up back up one week later, anklet back in place. Neal stepped out of the prison gates and walked suavely over to Peter.

"You remember how this works?" Peter joked.

"How could I forget," Neal said, the contentment clear in his voice. "One request, though, could we skip the sleazy hotel this time?"

Peter just shook his head, still baffled at the past few weeks' events. Neal had discovered freedom isn't about where or how far you can walk, but rather, whom you walk with. Needless to say, the agent was more than satisfied that his friend had fought to walk with him.

Inside the car, Neal began to fumble with the radio stations. Peter thought back only a few weeks, when he was stopped at a red light thinking how strange it was to not have Neal fidgeting in his passenger seat. Looking over, a small smile crept across his face. Yes, things were definitely back to normal.


End file.
